we'll script another show
by seemslikeaporno
Summary: How long is this going to hurt? / BeckTori.


_we'll script another show_

**Notes**: Based off of the song "Bear" by The Antlers. It's really sad and it makes you want to kill yourself. So, like. Take that as you will.  
**(IMPORTANT) Warnings**: Pregnancy, abortion, sexual content (penetrative sex), overall themes of depression. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE EASILY TRIGGERED BY ANY/ALL OF THESE THINGS.

.

.

"Hi," he says, grinning. His eyes are lidded, his smile lazy. He reaches to push a strand of hair from her forehead, kissing her there.

"Hi," she breathes, repeating him. She touches his cheek, caresses his toffee skin; every single part of her radiates contentment, excitement and adoration. She leans up to press her lips to the corner of his smile, laughing softly as he fits their lips together, cupping the back of her head, bringing her even closer. His fingertips drag at her scalp, lulling her to safety.

"I think I love you," he tells her, whispers it into her lips, where the words mingle with each stuttered breath, "I _know_ I love you," he rectifies, fingertips trailing down her bare torso, pressing shapes into her hips.

"I think I love you, too," she replies, settling into his touch, "I think I have forever," she adds, her lips pulling upwards at the corners; she lets out a heavy breath when his fingers touch her in the right place, pushing into her with a slow burn. "Beck," she murmurs, her voice hitching.

"I've got you," he answers, lying a line of kisses down her neck, "Tori, I've got you."

.

.

"Oh," she says, staring down at her hands. There's a plus sign, there, sketched into the screen of the plastic test; she thinks that this should be a happy occasion. It seems much more like a death sentence. "Oh, shit," she hisses, biting her tongue so hard between her teeth she can taste blood.

.

.

"Tori?" He's sitting on one of her armchairs, elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped together, tightly enough that his knuckles are turning white. He looks at her with his brows furrowed, his beating heart stuttering uncertainly within his ribs. She wouldn't let him touch her, earlier, when she invited him in. She avoided the press of his lips by tilting her head downwards, to stare at the glass of red wine in her hands.

"I'm - " she starts, and then stops. Takes a breath. Tries again. "I'm pregnant."

He blinks. Once, twice. He blanches. "_What_?"

"I'm pregnant," she says again, harsher this time. Her tone is biting, almost indignant.

"How?" He swallows thickly, focuses on the glass pressed between her hands. He fears it may shatter if she clutches it any tighter.

"How do you _think_?" She isn't herself; she's reminding him of first love. He closes his eyes, fights away the thoughts. She takes a steadying breath. Exhales. "I'm sorry," she apologizes softly, "I'm sorry, Beck, I'm just - I'm scared." She looks less scared than she does angry. Bitterness seeps into her words. "I'm - not going to keep it. Just so you know."

"Oh," he murmurs. "Fuck."

"Yeah," she agrees with a wry smile, "Fuck." She pauses. Takes a sip of her wine.

.

.

He makes the appointment for her, schedules it on a day he doesn't have to work. They laze around his apartment until afternoon, and then he drives her to the doctor. She gets sick along the away, anxiousness seeping into her bones, and they have to pull over at a gas station so she can throw up. She develops a fever by the time they arrive, and the doctor says that they can't do it today.

They climb back into Beck's car.

"Next time," she assures him, swallowing thickly. He squeezes her thigh.

.

.

"I love you," he reminds her the day before they return to the clinic. The bed jumps when she rolls over, to face him. She runs a manicured nail over his cheeks, brushing his unruly hair away from his face. She leans up to kiss him, chastely, before pulling back.

He catches her hand, holding it to his chest. Uses his free hand to pull her into him by her hip, and carefully avoids touching her stomach.

"You need a haircut," she tells him quietly. Then murmurs, even quieter, "I love you, too."

They're silent for the rest of the night.

.

.

"I need - " She says, clutching his hand tightly. The lights wash her out. The hospital garment makes her look skinnier than she is. "Just, one minute. Alone." He squeezes her hand, nods once, and looks towards the doctor. The two leave the room, the door shutting behind them with a short _click_.

She takes a deep breath. Presses her palms to her flat stomach.

"I'm." She pushes her lips together into a thin line. Parts them. "I'm a shitty mom," she tells the room, empty of everyone except whoever it is growing inside of her. "I would be a shitty mom," she corrects, calling for the others to come back in.

.

.

"I feel like I've lost something," she tells him when she's high from painkillers.

He never tells her what she's said, in fear of losing even more.

.

.

She tells him she doesn't want to see him for a while, even packs up all the things she's left in his apartment, the clothing he's washed for her when she's left it on accident, some of her old movies, her spare toothbrush in the bathroom.

He pulls her close, kisses the top of her head, tells her to come back when she's ready.

.

.

She never leaves, not really. She doesn't even shut the door before she's back in his arms, kissing him so, so desperately that she can hardly feel anything else. It's more teeth than anything, and she leaves crescent-shaped marks in his shoulders. He bruises her hips, presses so deep into her that she feels like she's being torn apart from the inside out.

She claws at his back, leaves angry, red marks, wraps her legs around his waist and begs him to go harder, to be rougher. He bites into her neck when he comes into the condom, blinks away his fuzzy vision and reaches between them to press two fingers into just the right place, rubbing her until she clenches around him with a soft cry.

"I want to die," she tells him, and he presses his lips into her jaw, trying to soothe her, "I want to die, Beck, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die," she whimpers, a broken record, repeating.

.

.

She's sitting on the floor, watching a rerun of Saturday Night Live, and he's watching her from his perch on the couch, afraid to leave her alone for more than a handful of seconds at a time.

"Tori," he says, his voice soft. She doesn't look at him. "I - I love you, you know." He knows that she knows, knows she avoids this altogether, now, knows that things are falling to pieces and that he's the only one trying to keep things together, spreading cement over the cracks in their foundation.

"Forever?" She asks. He doesn't answer. He isn't sure.

.

.

"I had a bad dream," she whispers, her voice crackling through the receiver. It's three in the morning. They're in separate beds, in separate apartments on the opposite sides of town. "Can you come over?" Her voice breaks.

"I have work in the morning," he says. It's three o' one, now, "Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?"

"Yes," she says. She hesitates. "I want you to come over." She sounds sadder, now, desperation creeping up into her words. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Please, Beck," she pleads, and he knows she's crying by the way she sounds.

"Okay," he says, because he still - fuck, he still loves her, more than anything, "I'll be there."

.

.

They fuck and it's rough and dirty and she cries afterwards, curling in on herself and pressing her face into his chest, shaking. He winds his arms around her and wishes he could make it better, but he can't. He just - _can't_.

"I never wanted this to happen," she says, like it's her fault, "I'm a bad person, I'm a shitty fucking person."

"You're not," he tells her, steadfastly, surely, "Tori, you're not a bad person."

"We could've done it," she says, tears tracking down her cheeks, "We could've taken care of it. We - could've been a family, if we'd wanted."

"We didn't want that," he reminds her softly, "We did what was best. We never - we never kidded ourselves, Tori, we didn't _want_ that." He presses his nose into the crown of her head, closing his eyes, feeling her nod into his chest, a wisp of a breath ticking the thin hairs there.

.

.

"It keeps - crying," she mutters a few mornings later, twisted in his sheets, "A baby."

He swallows thickly, propping himself up on his pillow. The look he gives her is desperately sad.

"I can't tune it out, Beck," she whispers, pressing her palms into her eyes, "I hear it everywhere, every night, in my dreams - every nightmare." She drops her hands by her sides. "_You've abandoned me_," she says, and then breaks down.

.

.

"Do you want to go out?" He asks.

She's been in bed for three days, hasn't gone to work, hasn't eaten. He called her boss, yesterday, told him that she's been violently ill, in and out of the doctor's office, and gets her the rest of the week off without much consequence.

"No," she says shortly. She shifts under the blankets, doesn't look at him. "Beck," she murmurs, hiding her face, "do you still love me?"

"I'm here," he tells her, and perhaps that is enough.

.

.

They put together a puzzle on Wednesday. It's only two hundred and fifty pieces and it takes them all day, because she keeps losing focus and he keeps pausing to make sure she's alright, but when it's done he feels like things are better, somehow, that putting together this puzzle with no missing pieces symbolizes something greater.

She smiles a few times. Runs her fingers over his when they reach for the same piece.

.

.

She makes them lunch the next day, and it's easy, just some noodles with sauce out of a can, but she's focused on something, poring over the boiling pot of water. He comes behind her, presses his hands into her hips, holds her steady.

She closes her eyes, leans into his touch. "Beck," she says, "Do you - think about what it might be like?"

She doesn't specify but he knows what she's talking about, knows the thoughts that linger in the corner of her mind and haunt her in her sleep. He kisses the top of her head.

"I think about you, is all," he responds.

.

.

"I want to go out," she says.

Honestly, he would rather stay in, but he'll go if she wants to.

.

.

It turns out badly; there's a couple with a stroller at the coffee shop they go to, and they coo and coddle their child, ecstatic and fond, blissfully unaware of how much it hurts to - to lose one. She goes quiet; he takes her home, kisses away the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

"I wish I hadn't," she says, and he thinks she's going to say something else, but she finishes with, "gone through with it," and he's at a loss for words.

.

.

"How long is this going to hurt?" She asks him, her feet pushed between his calves, curved towards him.

"Forever," he replies, "but it's going to be okay."

"I think I stopped loving you," she says.

He hesitates. Then, with finality, says, "Not forever."

.

.

_fin._


End file.
